Things Change
by Alexandria-likethecityinEgypt
Summary: Faced with a sick eight-year old, an anxious Bruce reflects back on the events that first brought the young acrobat into his life. {The 3rd in the Young Dick Grayson Series; set before the last scene of the epilogue in Bat-Wolf.) *You do not have to read Bat-Wolf to enjoy this one.*


**This little one-shot is set before the second part of the epilogue to the story Bat-Wolf. You do not need to read Bat-Wolf to enjoy this one, however. Dick hasn't yet discovered Bruce's secret identity. And Bruce is still floundering about as he struggles to figure out his role as the boy's guardian.**

 **Warning: One Little Word or Two . . .**

* * *

Things change . . . In this house, Alfred reflected, those changes weren't always sought, or even wanted. Sometimes those changes brought with it terrifying emotional storms only for those storms to die out and leave behind a desert – Dry, harsh, and unforgiving.

But sometimes . . .

* * *

Bruce made his way up the stairs for the eighth time that night. He walked the long hallway and stopped, not in front of his bedroom, but outside of that of his ward. He knew, because Alfred had warned him, that taking a child into his home would be disruptive. He knew, because Alfred had warned him, that the boy needed constant supervision. And as usual, Alfred was right.

But he didn't have a choice in the matter.

Oh, he _had_ ; eventually he would have been able to push the child from his mind and his life would have returned to normal, but the boy's heartache had been his own. So many times in the course of his night work, Batman had come across tragedies that had left children, some even younger than Dick, orphaned and homeless. As Bruce, he had done everything he could to make certain that the children were taken care of; their physical needs met.

But this boy had been different. Right from the start, _everything_ had been different.

* * *

It had been a night of fun and relaxation. Alfred's insistence that Bruce Wayne go out and do something that didn't involve Batman, or fundraising, or alcohol . . . Not that he ever partook of more than a glass; usually left unfinished or tossed into a convenient potted plant. But something that didn't include women, but maybe just one woman instead; oddly enough Bruce couldn't remember her name although it was but a couple of months ago. Something that would place the younger man in the midst of a crowd of people not interested in schmoozing him; in fact, not interested in _him_ at all.

A night at the circus. What could go wrong?

As it turned out, everything . . .

So different, and yet so . . . the same.

They had died, just as _his_ parents had, at the hands of a murderer, but not to the devastation of bullets. No, they had fallen from fifty feet up in the air. Fifty feet; roughly the height of a five story building. Not in an alley, but in the center ring. Not in the dark, but in the spotlight. Although blood and filth didn't stain their clothing; blood and sawdust did.

It hadn't been in a cold and silent alley with none but their ten year old son as a witness. It had happened in front of a crowd of strangers; all of them looking on, all screaming in horror.

Except . . . the boy. Dick Grayson, even younger than Bruce had been at the time of his own tragedy, had been, despite the crowd, just as alone in his shock and horror and grief as Bruce had been all those years ago.

Dealing with the panicked crowds, and their own sense of shock and disbelief, the circus folk had initially forgotten that lost little boy. No one had noticed him still on the platform above it all. No one had watched him fall to his knees up there or heard his screams above those of the crowd below. People were too busy staring at the broken bodies or clambering to leave the tent in order to be sick in the grass and sawdust outside to see the child climb down the rope ladder with reckless speed.

People were rushing to leave, or rushing to direct them so that no one would get hurt in the crush, or rushing to contact the authorities. The boy had rushed to the center ring; stopping just a few feet from the bodies of the two most important people in his young life. No one seemed to notice as he took those last few hesitant steps and kneeled down between them. Or saw his hands hover over first one and then the other; desperate to help, but unsure how.

No one noticed his despair . . . no one but Bruce.

For all intents and purposes, for the first ten minutes or so at least, the boy had been as alone as Bruce had been on his own fateful night years ago.

At the moment it had occurred, Bruce had leapt to his feet, but the couple had hit the ground before he could do more than reach out helplessly. His eyes, however, hadn't been fixed on the parents so much as on their child. When he tried to remember that moment when the Graysons had hit the ground, all he could see in his mind's eye was Dick's horrified expression.

People were running this way and that, but Bruce had been frozen in that moment; unable to move, his attention riveted on nothing but the child. It wasn't until Haley himself seemed to come to his senses and spotted the boy that anyone thought to drag out tarps to hide the bodies. It wasn't until the older man had tried to pull the child away, to hide the sight from him, that sound would return and Bruce could suddenly move.

It was at this point that Dick had begun screaming. He fought; reaching for his parents even as Haley struggled to drag him away. It had required two people to hold him, and Haley had eventually been forced to pick him up; physically removing the child from the tent.

Afterwards, Bruce had sank back onto the bleachers in a daze.

The police had come soon after that, and Bruce found himself eavesdropping on the conversations going on around him.

"A horrible accident."

"How foolish to tempt fate without a net."

"Could be chalked up to negligence. Someone wasn't doing their job."

"What do you mean a child? What child?"

"Murder? What are you talking about? The boy? What would he know about it?"

"The couple's son believes someone killed them."

"He says he saw the man who did this."

"Bring the boy to me!"

Bruce had stepped out of the tent then, and the Batman had stepped in. He had remained in the shadows, but he had wanted to hear the child's testimony. It was obvious that no one took the boy's accusations seriously until Haley finally admitted that a man had come by the circus the day before attempting to extort money in exchange for 'protection'. Haley hadn't realized that Dick had witnessed the argument or had heard the threats that Zucco had shouted as he had been escorted off of the circus grounds.

The boy claimed to have seen the man earlier in the evening, backstage and dressed as a roustabout. He swore it was the same man. He had tried to tell his parents, but Zucco had seemingly disappeared without a trace, and by then it was time to perform. No more thought was given to it. There had been no more time to spare. Trapeze work required intense concentration. The show must go on . . .

The matter had been dropped.

And then the boy's entire world had dropped out from under him.

Evidence had been collected and a warrant issued, but it had come back to Bruce that the evidence by itself wasn't enough. That without the witness everything was circumstantial, and Zucco could . . . _would_ walk should he be found and tried. There was word on the street was that a hit had been placed on the boy. Although Haley could testify that Zucco had come to the circus to extort money, only Dick could place him in proximity of the scene at the time of the crime.

It was an unspoken understanding that should the boy disappear, the case would be dropped.

Social services scrambled to find a solution to the problem. How to protect the child without endangering all the innocents around him? The answer came in the form of the Gotham City Boy's Correctional Facility. What protected the city and neighborhoods from the delinquents could, in turn, protect the boy from those who would do him harm. After all, he would be behind thick concrete walls with sturdy bars and surrounded by guards . . . Who in their right mind would break into a prison? Even one designed to house juveniles?

And so, Richard Grayson had been remanded into the custody of the correctional facility. Richard Grayson became Gregory Richards; not a huge leap, but a big enough one to have left Bruce Wayne floundering. The boy had disappeared! Of all the children that Bruce had made arrangements for, the one that would not leave him alone at night, had been lost.

In the end it was only as Batman that the Commissioner had eventually bled the news of young Grayson's whereabouts. Only three people knew and had been sworn to secrecy, but Gordon had been appalled by the arrangements made. He wanted this case solved and the child placed into one of Gotham's orphanages or, better yet, into a foster home. The police commissioner had faith that if anyone could locate the cagey extortionist it would be the Batman.

No one knew how Bruce Wayne had discovered Richard Grayson's location, but Gordon suspected it had been the Batman who had passed along the sensitive information. The commissioner couldn't say he was displeased. In fact, part of him had hoped that the vigilante would somehow come up with a solution for the intolerable situation. Of all the people who exclaimed over the Dark Knight's lack of emotions, Gordon was not among them. If anything, the police commissioner suspected that the Caped Crusader's emotions ran too deep; otherwise, why bother to hide them?

That someone had leaked the information to the one citizen that might be capable of rescuing that traumatized child from the terrors of juvie hall, Gordon was nothing if not grateful. He, too, had had a difficult time sleeping at night thinking about that boy.

Bruce had been horrified. Of the days that followed after the deaths of his own parents, no one had snatched Bruce from his home and away from everyone who might have loved him! Neither had they taken him and placed him in a prison . . . For minors, but a prison all the same. How unfair it must feel to that child to think he was being punished for something and treated like a criminal when, in truth, he was the victim.

Alfred had only argued the first few days as Bruce had searched, with increasing agitation, for the boy. But when Batman had come back with news of the boy's location, even Alfred's arguments had quieted. It was only temporary, after all. The boy would be here a week or two at most, surely, and then a proper home would be found for him.

All attempts to see the child had been denied while a rush had been put on the paperwork required for Richard Grayson's transfer. For Bruce Wayne to be granted access to the child would only create interest and bring unwanted attention to him at a very delicate time. Bruce had gone to the funeral two weeks ago in hopes of seeing the boy, but discovered that the child had been denied the privilege of saying one last goodbye. For his own safety, Bruce had been told.

 _Three weeks_ . . . Three weeks from the time that the commissioner had told Batman of the boy's whereabouts until a judge had finally signed off on the petition to place Richard Grayson temporarily into Bruce Wayne's custody until Zucco was convicted and behind bars and the hit placed on the child's head had been cancelled.

Alfred had accompanied him to the detention center. The two had stood in the warden's office waiting until the guard could escort young Mr. Gregory Richards to them. Bruce had been uncharacteristically nervous; shuffling his feet. No one who knew him would have recognized him by his behavior. He couldn't put a finger on it exactly, but Bruce believed it might have been the thought that Dick might reject his offer outright. What if the boy said no?

Alfred had scoffed at the idea, dismissing it out of hand, but Bruce couldn't seem to help himself in this regard. _Why_ was this so important to him? He didn't think he could have answered that question at the time. Now? Now, Bruce had a few suspicions of what lie behind his need, but not then . . . not in that office.

The little boy that entered several minutes later looked nothing at all like the boy Bruce had seen at the circus that night. He was the same height and his hair was the same color, but so much had changed that Bruce had at first suspected that he had been brought the wrong child in those first crucial moments.

The messy, black locks were greasy and dirty. The boy's healthy olive complexion had paled alarmingly with sallow undertones. He had lost weight; a _lot_ of weight. The orange jumpsuit he wore was big, the cuff at the wrist and ankles were rolled up, but still he seemed to swim in it. He looked suddenly much younger than his purported eight years; more like six, so small did he appear in that moment.

He had a dark circle under one of his eyes, indicating lack of sleep, but the other one . . . Bruce caught a glimpse before the child had hidden his face and was shocked. The other one was black and blue and still a bit swollen. His lips had been split recently as the crusted scab across them testified. He held one hand across his body; cradled as if injured in some way. This was not the same child that he had watched being placed in the back seat of a police car that terrible night. That child, grief-stricken though he was, had been relatively clean and quite healthy; with pink cheeks, bright if sad eyes, and shiny black hair.

This one looked as though he had died with his parents that terrible night. He had been told that this elaborate tactic had been an effort to ensure the boy's safety. but what of _this_ . . .?

Bruce had been livid. That dark brooding presence inside of him that took solace in beating criminals to a bloody pulp rose up in defense of the boy. Only Alfred's staying hand and Bruce's concern that he might frighten the child further, or worse, lose his hard-won custody battle, caused him to refrain.

So, instead, Bruce had stepped over to the boy. Dick had yet to raise his head and look directly at him. Bruce stared down on that mop of unruly black hair and did what he suspected the child to be doing; comparing the sizes between their shoes. Dick's were dirty, scruffy, white sneakers that had seen better days and Bruce's were shiny, black, Italian loafers.

After a minute or two of silence, Bruce crouched down. Even squatting, he was taller than the boy, he noted.

"Richard?" Bruce had said. He had to stop and clear his throat that was still thick with the need to deck someone.

The boy didn't react. He had spoken briefly with Haley and knew the boy went by a nickname . . . Dick, Haley had said his father had called him.

"Dick?"

The child had flinched ever so slightly at the name. The guard was scratching his head. He had been told the boy's name had been Gregory. Bruce ignored him.

"Dick, my name is Bruce Wayne," he had introduced himself.

Of course there had been no reaction to the name. Haley's Circus had only come to Gotham City thrice in the past ten years. If Dick had ever been here before, he would have been too young to have noticed any passing mention of the Gotham socialite.

"My home is very large and quite well-protected. At the moment, however, there are no little boys living in it. No one, but myself and Alfred."

 _No curiosity at all_ . . .

"It could use someone to liven it up," Bruce had added, hopefully.

Dick stared at their shoes, or perhaps it was some spot on the floor, he didn't know at this point. Bruce glanced up at Alfred, and saw the older man's mouth tighten. He gave the slightest of nods as way of encouragement. Bruce sighed. What would appeal to this child, he wondered?

Bruce's eyes focused on the hand that Dick cradled against his abdomen. Even without pulling back the ugly, orange material, Bruce could see the edges of mottling. The hand looked a little puffier than the other, he noted with growing unease. Had the boy received more than the black eye and busted lip? Why had no one taken care of this?

Anger and nausea twisted in his stomach over what this child had been forced to deal with while being held here, but it clarified to him what it was that Dick might crave over everything else; what might entice him to agree to Bruce's offer . . .

"You would be _safe_ there, Dick," Bruce told him softly. "No one would ever hurt you while you stayed with me."

He licked his lips. Whatever this boy said would be honored. If he rejected Bruce's offer or continued to be silent, the warden would signal the guard to return him to wherever he had found him. _That couldn't happen_!

"W-Would you like to come and stay with me in my home?"

For a long moment, Bruce feared that the child's reticence would doom him to weeks within these walls. If they protected him from Zucco, they would do nothing to protect him from the facility's inmates, many of whom had proven they were just as cruel as their adult counterparts.

 _Come on, kiddo_! _Just a nod would do_ . . .

Then, just as Bruce was ready to give in to his own despair, the boy spoke.

"Yes sir," Dick said. It was barely audible; no more than a whisper really, but Bruce had heard it just fine.

No one would be taking this boy from him now!

They had left from the Warden's office; staying only long enough to send someone to retrieve the backpack that were all that remained of Dick's possessions. They had gone home via Doctor Leslie Thompkins' clinic where Dick's sprained wrist and bruised ribs were dealt with. Apparently, no one at the correctional facility had been aware of the additional injuries as Dick had chosen to neither complain nor cooperate. In fact, the boy had refused to speak to anyone from that moment.

It had taken three more weeks after that for the child to say much more than that.

* * *

Bruce stared at the door with his hand on the knob. He turned the handle and opened the door. He was still there, right where Bruce had left him but fifteen minutes ago. A harsh cough broke the silence and Bruce cringed.

He wasn't any good at this. What had he been thinking, taking a child into his home; making promises he would likely be unable to keep? He should, even now, be out on Gotham's rooftops stopping criminals and fighting against the forces that created tragedies such as his; such as happened to this boy!

Oh, he had tried, but hadn't gotten much farther than halfway down the stairs to the cave before his feet had slowed and Bruce found himself glancing behind him as if he could see through stone and wood and into the room beyond. For all that his mission called to him, the child's need called to him more. Alfred had assured him that he could handle the situation; that he would call him home should the fever spike or the boy's condition deteriorate, but . . . Bruce had decided to check on the boy one more time before he left.

That had been two hours ago.

Another cough disrupted his thoughts, this time a small whimper followed it, and Bruce found his feet crossing the distance from the door to the bed without his permission; inexorably drawn to the small shape huddled there. The sound of Dick's labored breathing made Bruce grimace. When he reached the boy's bedside, his hand was drawn against his will to the flushed cheek and up to the dry, hot forehead.

 _The fever was back_! _Damn_ . . .

His eyes found the clock. It was too soon for another dose of medicine, however.

Knowing he would never be able to go back down to his study, let alone the cave beyond just yet, Bruce pulled the upholstered chair up close to the side of the bed. The bowl of cool water still sat where Alfred had left it. Without conscious thought, his hands dipped the damp cloth into the water and wrung it out. Deftly, the hands that spent practically every night pounding information from informants or punishing hardened, angry men for their evil deeds, gently wiped the face of the small boy in front of him.

Without opening his eyes, Dick gasped and then turned his face into the cloth. All too quickly, the cloth was as warm as the child, and Bruce dipped it once again into the bowl. This time, however, when he folded it, Bruce lay it across the boy's forehead; carefully lifting the child's dark bangs out from under it. As his fingers slid down that soft cheek, Dick once again leaned into the touch.

He frowned. _So, it wasn't the cool temperature the boy had been craving, but the comforting touch of another_ . . .

As he drew his hand away, one of Dick's hands slid from the covers and reached for him.

 _No. Not him. The boy was likely delirious and thought he was reaching for his father or mother. At this point, any human contact would probably do_ . . .

The whine that the boy emitted tore a hole in Bruce's heart.

He looked behind him, but Alfred was in the kitchen preparing a hearty broth for the boy once his fever had broken. Was that why the butler wasn't up here cooling the child's fever and making soothing noises so that the boy could rest? While Bruce knew the broth wouldn't make itself and would be helpful in the child's recovery, it prevented the butler from attending to the boy at times like this.

He glanced at the clock again and sighed. Gotham needed Batman . . . He started to climb to his feet. A sudden wracking cough halted his progress. The sob that followed on its heels decided him.

"Bru-u-uce . . ." Dick whimpered.

How could he resist that? The answer was, he couldn't.

Bruce kicked off his shoes and pulled back the covers. Gently, he lifted the boy into his arms and sat on the bed. With one arm he tugged the blankets over them as he settled Dick into his lap. Although the boy was reclined against Bruce's chest and into the nook of his arm, the new position was more upright than the previous one, and seemed to ease the boy's difficulty breathing.

Perhaps Bruce ought to instruct Alfred to leave the broth and hold the boy like this. It obviously was helpful. He frowned at the idea that caring for a sick child would require the full attention of two grown men, but Dick _was_ resting better now.

He would stay like this until Alfred came back up, and then Bruce could leave for patrol with a clear mind.

With this thought, Bruce settled in and found himself relaxing against the soft pillows. Dick's distress momentarily assuaged, the boy snuggled and sighed, finally sleeping almost peacefully.

* * *

Alfred hurried up the stairs. It was time for the young master's fever reducer. He carried a small mug of broth with him. The liquid should do wonders for relieving the nasty congestion that was building in the boy's chest.

He feared he had a long night ahead of him. Ever since dinner, when the child's fever had first made its presence known, the boy had been miserable. Between the discomfort that usually accompanied fevers and a cough that had started simply enough, but had grown in severity over the last several hours, the boy had been whiny and restless.

Alfred had assured Master Bruce that the illness was nothing more than a normal winter malady, but if the boy appeared worse by morning that they could call Dr. Thompkins then. The young man had been hovering nearby nervously for the better part of the early evening. It was enough to make the normal stoic butler's lips twitch with satisfaction. At least the master was taking his responsibilities to the lad seriously.

He paused at entrance to Master Richard's room. When he had left, the door had been closed. He moved through the now open doorway and nearly stumbled at the tableau in front of him. He quietly sat the tray on the bedside table and left the room. He returned a few short minutes later.

The flash startled Master Bruce awake, but he quickly remembered the burden in his arms. He glared at Alfred as the butler stuffed the camera into his jacket pocket.

"You're going to wake him," the young man grumbled in complaint.

"Indeed, I am," Alfred agreed. "It is time for the lad's medicine."

Bruce scooted up in the bed a little. "He breathes a little easier like this," he announced. "His cough isn't as pronounced."

"I should have realized as much," Alfred said, noncommittedly. "Here you go, Master Richard. Open up."

The boy lifted his head sleepily and took the medicine without complaint, or at least until he tasted it. His face scrunched in disgust as Alfred held out the mug of broth. The young master blinked groggily and looked at the mug suspiciously.

"Just a bit of broth to help the medicine go down," Alfred coaxed.

The boy took a small sip, murmured his thanks sleepily, and curled right back into Bruce's arms contentedly.

"You should trade me places, Alfred," Bruce said softly.

"Oh, I daresay, Master Bruce, I'm sure that the boy is quite happy with his current position," Alfred told him.

"But Gotham . . ."

"Will survive until tomorrow evening," Alfred assured him as he picked up the mug of leftover broth. "I'm pleased that you are taking your role as the child's guardian so earnestly. Your parents would be proud of the man you have become."

The younger man glanced down hesitantly at the boy, and seemed to resign himself to his fate.

"It would appear that you are correct, sir," Alfred murmured quietly as he turned out the lamp. With only a nightlight left, the room settled into comfortable shadow. "He does rest easier this way."

When he glanced back in as he was pulling the door closed behind him, he reflected on how just one small change could make all the difference in a life gone awry.

* * *

Things _do_ change . . .

But _this_ time, Alfred thought with satisfaction, it was a change for the better.

* * *

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